When my Creator sewed my costume,
From a pile of collected patterns,
He knew the beginning and the end.
Alas, I did not know that ...
Souls sewn pockets ...
Character-buttons in a row.
But the not-stained wounds
So my outfit will be disgusting.
And my cap is covered with a cap
Or tailor fuss ...
The fate of the rut is not sewn ...
But the costume is sewn. And emptiness ...
And each line is straight,
Suit of a strict style,
A curved body embracing,
He hides a low bow.
And the collar, clutching his neck,
Measuring every sigh.
I can not breathe, I do not dare to shout ...
To breathe out, you need to breathe in.
Costume clad with strict,
Only body covering sin,
Soul, becoming wretched,
But sharing thoughts for everyone.
The tailor, the Creator only created it,
What was the measure of His strength ...
And He sewed from his own patterns,
Sshil good. How did you wear it?
"REFLECTIONS" Grandpa Go